Routine
by Lillielle
Summary: Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry/Snape. Very, very dubious consent/non-consent themes. Harry craves the routine as much as anything else...


**_Notes: Harry/Snape. Very dubious consent/non-consent. Harry is 16 in this story._**

"Stay after class, Potter," Snape's voice sends shivers down Harry's spine. He nods, mechanical, as the rest of the class packs up their things, as Ron claps him on the shoulder and Hermione sends him a worried look before they are rushed out the door.

"Strip, Potter," Snape orders him. Harry blinks, emerald green eyes like shattered glass, as he does his professor's bidding, his fingers moving on slumped puppet strings as he shrugs out of his robes and unbuttons his shirt. It is the work of a few moments to strip down until he is utterly, starkly nude, his clothes piled on the floor at his bare feet. Snape's eyes glitter like obsidian as he circles the boy.

"Beautiful," Severus hisses, and the word burns like acid. "Come here, Potter." Severus leans against his desk, and Harry stumbles against him, feeling the rough cloth against his bare skin, the way the man's hands clasp around his shoulder-blades like claws. Snape's mouth on his is punishing, demanding. His tongue rasps against his teeth, and he makes little choked sounds in the back of his throat that might be sobs.

"Undress me," Snape orders, and Harry can do nothing but obey, pushing aside the austere black robes, unbuttoning the neat rows of pearl buttons until it feels like his fingers will break in weariness. So many buttons, and nothing to guide him but the dark look in his Potions professor's eyes, spurring him on.

The man's chest is pale, as ghostly as the rest of him, and littered with scars from potions-making accidents and his service with Voldemort. Harry's fingers cautiously trace over a few of the more egregious ones, his task forgotten until Severus jerks his hair back, the order blazing in his eyes unmistakable.

"Sorry, sir," Harry whispers, and drops to his knees, unbuckling Snape's belt with a practiced motion, and sliding his trousers down. He wears no underwear, and so Harry's hand automatically closes around the smoothly jutting shaft already dribbling pre-come.

"Taste it, Potter," Snape says, voice rough, and Harry does, tentatively swiping his tongue across and gathering up a few translucent drops. They have no taste, not really, and he continues, drawing the head into his mouth, still cautious until Snape's hands close around his ears and he is forced down on it until he chokes and sputters for air.

"Like that," Snape informs him, almost smug, and the rhythm continues for a few moments until Harry is ordered up and bent over the professor's desk, feeling the cold breath of air against his body, feeling the Potions master's hands everywhere. A ruler snaps across his arse, and he cringes, but does not make a sound.

"Good, Potter," the man approves, and Harry feels his cheeks redden with the praise. No! He shouldn't be proud, he shouldn't like this-or should he? He can't remember anymore, and he barely notices when he is bent still farther, when Snape slides smoothly into position, slides smoothly into _him_. It hurts for a bit, but the pain dissipates as Snape begins to move. It's happened so many times already, after all.

At first, when Snape had snapped at him to remain, had ordered him around like just another play toy, Harry had fought, had shouted at the overbearing git. It hadn't worked. Now, he simply juts his hips out further, pushes back against the hard, sturdy presence behind him, eyes glazed over.

Severus's hand snakes around the line of his hip, tugging at him with quick, sloppy strokes, until they come at the same time, Severus biting at his neck, Harry biting his bottom lip until it cracks. He looks down at his cum, staining the desk in curlicue trails, and bends down farther, licking it up with quick darts of his tongue. If he doesn't, Snape will be disappointed in him, and he _hates_ when Severus is disappointed, it feels worse than the Cruciatus curse, stabbing through his mind like the pain would stab through tortured muscles.

"Get dressed," Snape orders, shaking a bit in the after-shock, relaxed. Harry nods and retrieves his clothing, stepping back into it all and pulling his robes back on. His mouth tastes musty.

Snape looks him over, smooths the untidy hair, taps his wand to the love bite on his neck and heals it. Does the same to the swollen and bloodied bottom lip.

"Better," Severus nods. "You may go."

"Do I have to?" the words fall unbidden from his lips, like they do every week. Snape hesitates.

"Yes," the man says, but the tinge of regret in his voice makes Harry's nerves sing.

_Perhaps next week,_ he thinks and steps out the door.


End file.
